Standing before him, a thief. Me. I am that thief.
Born into it? It certainly seems so. But is one actually born with the desire to take, to be in a state of constant conniving, conjuring up ways in which one can take into possession the possessions of others? This is a question, though attempted to be answered by many, not to be considered further in this narrative. My narrative.
Who is he, the one I’m standing before? He is my judge, here to determine my fate—something I gave up long ago, or perhaps never had. If born a thief, then I’d never given up the title. If grown into one, I’d never relinquished it nor reverted to more innocent ways. And it is in maintaining this moniker that I gave up any possession of fate. The taking of others’ possessions led to the surrender of self-ownership in any form. So here I am, facing one who is deciding whether I should live or die.
You might think that he’s surely going to choose death for me. And while you might say it sadly, as if trying to deceive me into believing you possess some pity for me, I know the truth. You believe I must die, that my thievery has gone too far. Perhaps you are right.
There is more at-play, however. I am not standing before this man as simply a subject to be condemned. I am here, in this very moment, standing as a champion. A champion of games witnessed by a bloodthirsty crowd. Twenty of us in all, some worse than thieves, facing off for the entertainment of the crowd. You’ve heard of this before. It’s existed forever, and in different forms. I have come out the winner.
But did I do enough to impress the judge into giving me a second chance? Not out of a sense of justice, but rather out of an inspired and entertaining performance.
If freed, it will not be because I deserved it and nor will I have genuinely earned it. I will have simply won it. Doesn’t seem fair? Especially to those who I have wronged and to whom I will not have to pay recompense. Again, you are perhaps right. But who am I to quibble with such a system?
A thief. That’s what I am—who I am.
…
My performance was enough. I knew it would be. The judge has given me his nod of approval. I am free to go. I will be met with skepticism out there in the real world. No longer will fighting, killing, bring me my freedom, as it has in this arena.
But I do not want to leave this arena. Here I’ve been given this second chance, this perhaps unearned freedom, and yet all I can do is look around aimlessly. I was forced into this arena, escorted into it wrapped in chains. Yet never had I felt so much freedom. Never had my mind and body and soul worked in such unison as it had while I fought.
Please don’t let me go, judge. Please change your mind.
“My decisions are irreversible,” he says, not so much with his words, but with his eyes. He sees my pain. He even seems to understand it. No, he does understand it. He too moves about freely within his own set of chains. I look to the crowd and notice that they also understand. Moments ago they freely roared with both approval and disapproval, but they are not truly free.
Who is free? I wonder. Surely, if I, a thief, cannot experience freedom after the loosening of chains brought about by my own strength, then who can?
I continue to ponder as I exit the arena, as I enter through the open doors into an enclosure masquerading as open freedom. Another group of fighters pass by. New games, same game. I don’t look at them. I can’t. I envy them, their opportunity ahead. They’re entering an enclosure of freedom, a place where their greatest struggle shall commence.